


One Autumn Evening

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Giveaway fic, Injured John, Love Confessions, M/M, No Mary, POV Sherlock Holmes, Parentlock, Sherlock is clueless, Siblings, baby girl watson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-25 01:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2603657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary's past catches up to her in a blaze of fire, leaving Sherlock to deal with the aftermath, not to mention a baby. Sherlock has no idea what to do, but he has no choice but to do the best he can. Parentlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Autumn Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benedictcumberreichenbach](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=benedictcumberreichenbach).



> Hey all! This is the first of three Johnlock giveaway fics.   
> This one is for [benedictcumberreichenbach](http://benedictcumberreichenbach.tumblr.com/) who requested parentlock as the prompt! I did my best, but you must keep in mind, neither me nor Sherlock has any idea what to do with children. Sherlock valiantly carried on where I would have run away screaming. Good job, Sherlock!  
> On with the show!

Sherlock clutched the small, fragile bundle to his chest and stared up at the flames engulfing the building in front of him in horror.

How had this happened?

He was out here with John Watson’s daughter in his arms while both of her parents were currently inside the fiery building in front of him. This was not a situation that ever would have occurred to Sherlock, and one that he hoped to never be in again, if he made it through tonight.

It wasn’t himself he was worried about, obviously. He was fine, and little… whatever-her-name-is was just fine. She was asleep, in fact. 

Squinting down at her, Sherlock pressed a fingertip to her chest and felt the little patter of her heartbeat. Yes, asleep, and probably fine.

Sherlock wasn’t fine at all. His best friend and his best friend’s assassin wife were currently in a burning building with armed assailants. And they’d left him here, with something very breakable in his arms. He had no idea what to do with a baby, and even less idea of what to do when you have a baby, but also need to rescue your friend from almost-certain death.

And then, a black car pulled up behind him.

For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t certain if it were Mycroft, or Mary’s mysterious enemy.

Because this was definitely Mary’s fault. It was always Mary’s fault. Mary thought it had been a good idea to take a baby with her into a confrontation with people that wanted her dead. There were too many people who wanted her dead for Sherlock to be able to narrow that list down much.

It was contemptible. Mary had taken John’s daughter into danger in the hopes her enemy wouldn’t hurt a mother with her child.

She’d been wrong.

And of course, as soon as John realized what danger his daughter was in, he’d immediately gone to her rescue. And of course, Sherlock had gone with him. Been incapable of doing anything else, when the fear in John’s eyes made them terrible to look at.

“Looking a bit lost, are we, brother dear?” said a snide voice.

“Shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “John’s in there.”

“And Mary, presumably,” Mycroft said.

“What’s going on?” Sherlock said. “Do you know who did this?”

“There’s no time to answer questions,” Mycroft answered, swinging his umbrella. “We must get you and Miss Watson to safety.”

Sherlock wanted to protest. Wanted to leave the child here and go back to find John, even though it was almost completely certain that no one was going to make it out of that building alive.

But he knew for certain that John would never want Sherlock to abandon his little girl with strangers, even if it was to save him. He wouldn’t want Sherlock to put himself in danger, not if it was uncertain that John himself were alive. He’d want his daughter safe somewhere, with someone he knew.

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but he did.

He climbed into the back of Mycroft’s car with the baby still in his arms. He turned his back to the burning building and didn’t look back. The door closed behind him, and he was in a quiet car, being spirited off to who knows where.

Sherlock couldn’t think. He felt like his mind was in tatters from worrying about John. All he could think of was that moment, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget it.

People down the hall shooting at them while smoke poured into the clean air above their heads. John holding them off, Mary holding the baby, and Sherlock trying to figure out a way to escape. The people with guns massing at the other end of the hall, and John coughing as his uncovered nose and mouth breathed in the thick smoke. It was starting to get hotter.

And then, Mary had turned, handed the baby to him, and said, “Go.”

“I can’t - “

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, get out of here!” John shouted.

Mary drew her gun as well and moved to cover the other side of the hall. Sherlock stood there dumbly until he realized that they were going to hold off their enemy so that their daughter had a chance to get out.

So Sherlock had gone.

“There was nothing else you could have done, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. 

Sherlock said nothing, because he himself had come to the same conclusion. Out of the three of them, he was not only the worst shot (something he found hard to admit), but the most likely to find his way out of a burning building.

And then Sherlock realized exactly how calculated it was.

If Sherlock had still been in the burning building, and it was Mary or John who had come out, the guarantee of safety was not absolute. But it was Sherlock who had come out with the baby, and now the child was under the full protection of Mycroft Holmes.

Mary’s first gamble had failed, but her second was genius.

Although it may very well have cost her life - and John’s.

The car came to a halt, and the door opened. Sherlock stepped out to find himself… at St. Bart’s hospital. 

“You need to be checked over for injuries, sir,” one of Mycroft’s agents said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, walking numbly to the hospital doors.

The fluorescent lights must have been too much of a change from the darkness of the night, because the baby woke up and started bawling.

“Oh, poor dear,” someone said, coming up behind him. “Can we check you both in?”

Mycroft was speaking to someone at the front desk, no doubt giving them all of Sherlock’s pertinent information. However… he ignored the nurse and went up to Mycroft.

“What’s her name?” he asked flatly.

“Abigail,” Mycroft replied. “Abigail Jean.”

The nurse went to take her away from him, but Sherlock tightened his hold on her.

“I have to be the one to look after her,” Sherlock insisted.

The nurse was going to argue, he could tell, but Mycroft stepped in, and he was allowed to keep holding her.

They were both checked over for smoke inhalation damage and any other injuries, but they were both absolutely fine, physically. As for emotionally, both Sherlock and Abigail weren’t doing well on that front. Sherlock was terrified that John would never be coming home, and Abigail simply missed the presence of her parents.

The door opened, and Sherlock looked up, hoping for good news. But it was no one that Sherlock had ever met. It was a stocky woman with blonde hair dyed dark red. She was obviously John’s sister, Harry, from the signs of alcoholism he could see from just a glance.

“Are you Sherlock?” she asked, and her voice was husky and low.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And you’re Harry Watson.”

“Is there any news on John yet?”

“No.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Harry sat down in the seat next to him and said, “Well, not much to say to that, is there.”

“Not as such, no.”

The door opened again, and Mycroft came in.

“DI Lestrade is on the scene,” he informed Sherlock. “He will keep us updated on John and Mary’s case.”

Harry turned to look at Sherlock. “You’re a detective. How likely is it that they made it out alive?”

“Not very,” Sherlock said, and looked at the little girl he was holding, bundled up in a blanket.

He didn’t know what to do with a baby. He’d never considered the idea that he might ever end up with care of one. He saw them sometimes and didn’t spare them much thought, because the only things to deduce from babies were that they were hungry, or needed their nappies changed. Babies didn’t plot murders.

Who had custody of Abigail Watson?

He asked Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t even look away from whatever he was doing on his mobile. 

“Harriet is, as next of kin,” Mycroft said. “But in the event that she cannot take care of the child due to her… lifestyle… that job will fall to you.”

Harry turned and glared at him. “First of all, my name is Harry. Second, if this is about being a lesbian, you should know we can take care of children just as well as straight people!”

“He was talking about your alcoholism,” Sherlock said flatly. 

“I’m in a program,” Harry replied sullenly.

“Relapses happen,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

“And how would you know, Mr. High-and-Mighty?”

“I’m a cocaine addict.”

They looked at each other again, then looked down at the baby.

“Well, this is going to work out well,” Harry said, looking down at Abigail. “Johnny had better be alive, or this is going to be a disaster.”

“What about Mary?” Sherlock asked.

“Bitch can fry for all I give a fuck.”

Mycroft looked scandalized, but Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a smile. He had no idea that Harry didn’t like Mary, but it must have been a very strong dislike.

Mycroft’s phone beeped, and Sherlock nearly leapt out of his seat to look before remembering he was holding Abigail. He quickly passed her off to Harry, ignoring her slightly panicked look as she took her. He went and looked over Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Why is Lestrade under the name “Gregory” on your mobile?” Sherlock asked with sudden interest.

“That’s his name,” Mycroft said. “He says they’ve found John.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, Harry echoing it a moment later.

“He was thrown out of a window and through some chance, landed in a rubbish tip. It broke his fall, leaving him only with the injuries he sustained before leaving the building.”

“Thrown?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“The way he landed suggests that he didn’t go voluntarily. Someone with his training would have landed better if it was on purpose.”

“Is he being brought here?” Harry asked, getting up carefully and passing Abigail back to Sherlock.

“As we speak,” Mycroft said. “Apparently his injuries are still rather extensive. For now, we can wait here. The doctors indicated they want to keep the child in for observation, since she’s still a newborn.”

Abigail, seemingly understanding they were talking about her, suddenly started crying.

“She’s hungry,” Sherlock said.

“We’ll need to get her some formula. This is a hospital, I’m sure they can give her something to eat,” Mycroft said. “If everything is taken care of here, I am going to go and take care of Mary’s attackers. Goodbye.”

Sherlock didn’t know if he’d spent a more miserable four hours anywhere than in that hospital waiting room. The nurse came by with a bottle for Abigail, instructing Sherlock and Harry on how to feed her. Sherlock filed this carefully under “Do Not Delete” in case he needed to do this again at some point in the future.

When they were finally allowed to see John, the nurse tried to stop him, citing “Family members only.”

Mycroft was supposed to have taken care of this.

“For God’s sake, he can come in,” Harry said impatiently. “I’m John’s only remaining family, and this daft bastard is the only one to stick with my brother throughout all he’s been through. They’re pretty much married as far as I’m concerned. Besides, he’s carrying my niece.”

The nurse let him in, while Sherlock blinked rapidly at this pronouncement.

“You know John’s not gay?” Sherlock asked as he entered the room.

“Could have fooled me,” Harry said with a laugh. “Besides, you know that bisexuals exist, right?”

Sherlock hadn’t actually considered that, because John had been so vehement about not being gay that it hadn’t occurred to Sherlock he might fall somewhere else on the spectrum. Sherlock himself was very much gay, although he suppressed the desire for sex as much as possible.

“I have never seen any indication he was anything but straight,” Sherlock said.

“Oh please, he never told you about his huge crush on that commander of his in Afghanistan?” Harry asked blithely, as Sherlock stopped suddenly in surprise.

“He never said,” Sherlock said, although he really should have seen it, now that he thought about it.

“Of course he didn’t,” Harry said. “Well, let’s see how he’s doing.”

John wasn’t awake, and he was hooked up to an oxygen tank. Sherlock supposed he must have inhaled a lot of smoke. He also had burns down one side of his body that were bright red and shiny in some places. Second degree burns. They would be very painful if John woke up without being on very strong pain medication.

Apart from burns, he also had glass lacerations and a broken wrist from where he’d landed strangely on it in the fall. He was lucky he hadn’t missed the skip, or he’d most certainly be dead. Sherlock brought Abigail closer and looked down at John. Abigail began fussing, seeming to realize that one of her caretakers was in the room.

“Sorry, Abigail, we don’t know where your mum is,” Sherlock said, although to be honest, he was quite relieved.

It was going to happen sooner or later. Mary had enemies from all over the world, and some of them had the means to find an elusive assassin. Some even had the means to send people after her in revenge.

John had been worried this would happen. And it had, and now Mary was missing and John was injured, and poor Abigail was stuck with Harry and Sherlock and not much else.

Maybe Mrs. Hudson would know what to do.

This was hateful, waiting like this. He just wanted John to be awake! It was selfish, he knew, because when John woke up, he’d be in a huge amount of pain. But he didn’t know what to do with this little dependant life. How was he supposed to take care of a baby when he barely bothered to attend to his own needs? John was the one that made sure he was fed and got some sleep most of the time.

There was another bed nearby, and Sherlock made to go and put Abigail on it. However, she began fussing, and Harry input, “She needs to be burped.”

“Burped?” Sherlock asked, making a face.

“Yeah, or she’ll be uncomfortable. She has air in her tummy.”

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. 

Harry rolled her eyes. “Two of my friends have a baby. Anyway, I thought everyone knew about baby burping.”

This time Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Must have deleted it.”

Harry did the actual burping, as she had the greater experience. Sherlock watched and grimaced when the baby spit up on the cloth that Harry had put over her shoulder. Harry saw his face and grinned.

“That’s why I put the cloth there,” she said.

That done, they put Abigail on the spare bed, and she went to sleep.

“What should we do?” Harry asked. “They’re both asleep now, and there’s no room for us in here with both beds occupied.”

“I’ll stay,” Sherlock said. “I don’t really sleep anyway. You can come back tomorrow. John probably won’t be awake until then anyway.”

That suited Harry just fine, and she left, yawning. Sherlock was left in the room with only two sleeping forms to keep him company.

Sherlock thought he wasn’t tired, but the stress of worrying must have had much more impact than he’d thought, because it wasn’t long before he felt like it was too hard to keep his eyes open.

The last thing he remembered was laying his head down of the bed next to John and shutting his eyes, thinking that he would just put his head down for a moment.

OOooOO

He woke up to fingers in his hair, and shifted into wakefulness immediately, raising his head. John’s hand slid off his head and flopped onto the bed at his movement.

“John, you’re awake!” Sherlock said, grabbing the fallen hand.

John gripped his fingers weakly and smiled. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a dry wheeze.

“I’ll call the nurse,” Sherlock said, pressing the button.

John tried to speak again, but all this accomplished was some rather painful-looking coughing. 

“Stop, don’t talk,” Sherlock said, racking his brains for a way to communicate.

John mouthed a word at him.

Sherlock squinted, and John mouthed it again, exaggerating the word.

“More?” he asked.

John mouthed the word again, this time pushing enough air out of his lungs to make a faint whistling sound at the end.

“Morse. Oh! Morse code,” Sherlock said. He held out his hand and said, “Here, tap it out against my palm.”

He waited as patiently as he could for John to finish the string of dits and dats.

_Abigail._

“Of course,” Sherlock turned, and was surprised to find that Abigail had not woken up again to demand more food. A look out the window told him that he’d only been asleep about three hours. She would probably be hungry soon.

He moved out of the way so that John could look past him and see that Abigail was in the room, and quite safe. John nodded, and Sherlock sat back down.

“She’s fine, we had her checked out when we got here,” Sherlock reported dutifully. “We gave her a bottle and burped her.”

Sherlock was proud that he remembered to mention the burping. Apparently, it was something that everyone knew.

_Mary?_

“No idea,” Sherlock said. “She hasn’t been found yet. Mycroft is handling it.”

_You?_

Sherlock smiled faintly. “I’m fine, John. Abigail is fine. You’re alive, if a little the worse for wear. You should rest now, John. We can talk more later.”

The nurse came just in time to let John drink some water before John fell back asleep. Sherlock looked at Abigail, and as if sensing his eyes, she woke up and loudly demanded that she be fed again.

Sherlock called the nurse, and he copied exactly what he’d watched Harry do just a few hours before. It didn’t seem that difficult, now that he was actually doing it. He held Abigail up over his shoulder, rubbing her back with his hand.

And then, Abigail hiccuped, and he felt a sudden warmth spread over the back of his shoulder. He’d forgotten to put the towel over himself, and she’d spit up on him.

Oh well. He’d needed a change of clothes anyway. Might as well just as Mycroft for one now rather than later. He hoped that baby spit came out of clothes.

Sherlock sighed as he put her back down. She wasn’t tired, and she sat up and looked around at her surroundings. There was nothing to do here, and Sherlock realized that he had no idea what to do with her now that she was awake.

There wasn’t much to do while waiting for John to wake up again. The nurse came in to tell him that Abigail was free to be taken home, and that Harry had been called to come sign the release paperwork.

Sherlock looked between the sleeping form of his friend and Abigail, wondering whether or not John would want Abigail to go home with Harry. It was a valid concern. Harry was an alcoholic. And Sherlock, loathe as he was to admit it, was still addicted to cocaine, as his little foray back into that world had proven.

Obviously. He should have realized. He knew addicts never truly became un-addicted to something.

“Shhhrrck.”

John was awake again! Sherlock picked up Abigail carefully and brought her around so that John could see her. John smiled and reached out. Abigail wrapped one tiny hand around his outstretched finger and giggled. Once she let go, John indicated he wanted to tap out something on Sherlock’s hand, so he reached out as well.

_You need to take her home,_ John tapped out quickly, looking determined. _To Baker Street. She’ll be safe there._

“John, you know that our - my flat isn’t child proof. There are chemicals and various other things she shouldn’t get into.”

_She’s a baby. Get Harry to get the pen from our house and set it up. Make sure she can’t move the pen and then tidy up. She can’t stay in the hospital._

Or, at least, that was the general gist of what John was tapping. Sherlock translated from the short form that John was using so that this conversation didn’t take forever.

“Harry has to be here to sign her out. You can’t do it, since you have to stay here,” Sherlock said worriedly. “And there’s no sign of Mary yet.”

“Actually, there is,” Mycroft said from the doorway.

They both turned, and Mycroft continued, “I’m sorry, John. Your wife is dead.”

John nodded stoically, showing no other sign of distress than acceptance of Mary’s fate.

_I knew_ , John tapped. _She pushed me out the window because there was no other way out. She didn’t follow, so I thought she might be dead._

“She would have killed you if she’d jumped out after you,” Sherlock realized aloud. “You were in the way.”

“And unconscious besides,” Mycroft said. “We had to identify her by her dental records.”

_I told her to jump_ , John told Sherlock. _A child should have her mother. And then Mary shoved me out without even saying anything._

“Of course she did,” Sherlock said. “She knew arguing with you would waste vital time.”

Sherlock didn’t tell John that by breaking the window and introducing more oxygen to the fire, Mary was likely immediately engulfed in flames. Not a good way to die.

“You need to take the child home,” Mycroft said. “You are the only one that can.”

“Oi, bigwig, what about me?”

Harry arrived on the scene, arms crossed over her ample chest and glaring at Mycroft.

“You’re going with him,” Mycroft said.

“What?” Sherlock and Harry said.

“Sherlock is neglectful of even his own habits and Harry has only recently started to try and combat her alcohol addiction. You’re going to have to do your best now, for John’s sake,” Mycroft said. “Together.”

Sherlock and Harry looked askance at each other.

“This is going to end horribly,” Harry announced.

“I agree,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “And anyway, Baker Street isn’t big enough for four people.”

“One of those people is a baby, and the other is stuck in hospital,” Mycroft said. “You can figure out to do once John is out of hospital, but until then, you’re stuck together.”

“How long until you’re better?” Sherlock asked John pleadingly.

_They have to make sure the lung damage doesn’t progress_ , John replied. _Maybe a few days. Depends on if there are complications or not._

Sherlock did not want to contemplate the possible complications of lung damage.

“You’ll still need help after you leave the hospital,” Sherlock said. 

_Exactly, which is why we’re going to Baker Street and not my house._

Sherlock sighed, and Harry said, “This is going to be a disaster, I just know it.”

“You’ve said it about a million times,” Sherlock said snarkily.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said warningly.

And it was off to a great bloody start.

OOooOO

Sherlock was cleaning, for once in his life.

He’d put away all his chemicals and taken all the biohazardous material out of the fridge. He’d wiped off all the counters, mopped the floor and cleaned every inch of the flat. He thought it was the cleanest it had ever been.

This was for John. 

Abigail was in the playpen, and she was chewing on the corner of an alphabet block. She hadn’t begun teething yet, thankfully, because Sherlock had no idea of how to deal with that. Sherlock washed his hands and went over to her.

“Hello, Abigail,” he said solemnly. “It looks like it’s just us for now. I know, I’m not the one you want to see right now. Probably the last person, in fact. To be honest, I’d much rather have John here than you, he’s much easier to talk to.”

Abigail laughed at him and threw the block at the side of the playpen. It missed Sherlock, but skidded off across the floor.

“You’ll be filling in for both John, and my skull, which Mrs. Hudson has appropriated as her own, for the time being,” Sherlock continued. “I don’t have a case right now, so nothing is going to be interesting around here.”

Abigail giggled and tried to crawl off.

“I’m glad Harry was the one to change you,” Sherlock continued. “I do not look forward to my introduction to that particular area of childcare. I don’t suppose I could trick Harry into doing it all the time?”

Abigail stumbled over a block and began to cry.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock said hurriedly, reaching down to scoop Abigail up. “There, there,” he said awkwardly, bouncing her a bit. “Nothing wrong, just a bit of a tumble. You’ll be fine.”

It was then that Mrs. Hudson made an appearance, carrying up a tray of tea.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she said in surprise. “Why do you have a baby?”

“Abigail Jean Watson, this is Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, this is John’s daughter,” Sherlock said. Abigail continued wailing, not even paying attention.

“How do you turn it off?” Sherlock griped, rocking her back and forth to no avail.

“Whatever happened that you have ended up taking care of a baby?” Mrs. Hudson demanded, looking on curiously.

“John is in the hospital, Mary is dead, and Harry is currently out shopping getting us a stockpile of baby necessities,” Sherlock said. “I was stuck with babysitting duties.”

The door downstairs opened.

“But she’s back now, so I suppose everything will be fine,” Sherlock said hurriedly.

Harry was carrying quite a lot of strange things, like a little set of mobile planets, a lot of diapers, unidentified fuzzy things in varying shapes and sizes, and a soother. 

“Oi, help me, would you?” she said, and Sherlock reluctantly went to help.

It was hard.

It was hard for Sherlock, who had only lived alone or with John for his whole life, to suddenly have two other people living in his flat. Even with his irregular sleep schedule, needing to take care of Abigail any time she was hungry, tired, or needed her nappy changed was a lot to remember. He found that even he was exhausted by it.

Not to mention, she cried a lot, and he usually had no idea how to get her to stop.

“I know you miss your mummy and daddy,” he said. “But they’re not available at the moment, so you’ll have to put up with me for now.”

Abigail only cried harder at this pronouncement, and Sherlock sighed heavily.

It was odd, having Harry staying with him. She was in John’s old room, and Sherlock had the baby’s cot set up in his own room. What they would do when John was out of the hospital, God only knew.

Sherlock went to visit John with Abigail every day, getting her dressed up in her little bobble hat and wrapping her up in blankets. It was heading into winter, and they needed to keep her wrapped up.

John could croak out his greetings now, although his throat still hurt. He would be allowed to leave soon, but only on the condition there was someone to take care of him as well. His dressings still needed tending to, which was impossible for John to do himself, with his broken wrist.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, John,” Sherlock said one day while they were visiting. “I’m hopeless at this. Looking after someone.”

“You seem to be doing quite well,” John said with a smile.

“Barely,” Sherlock muttered.

“And you’re getting along with Harry?” John asked.

“She’s tolerable,” Sherlock said, sighing.

“High praise,” John teased good-naturedly. 

“I wish you were there, John,” Sherlock said, a little desperately. “How do people cope with having so many people around all the time?”

“I know it’s hard for you, Sherlock,” John said heavily. “I do. But you’re the only one that I can trust, and the only one I can rely on. So please just try, for me?”

Sherlock nodded, and John reached out on took his hand. It seemed it was allowed now that John was injured. It was good, feeling John’s hand, warm in his. They said like that for a while, not talking, hands joined.

“Visiting hours are almost up,” a nurse reported on her way around. 

“Say goodbye to your dad, Abigail,” Sherlock said, feeling slightly bereft now that he had to leave again.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” John said, and then kissed the knuckles on his hand.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, and John watched him steadily, as if waiting for a reaction. His thumb smoothed over the spot that his lips had touched, and Sherlock felt his cheeks heat in an undoubtedly incriminating way. 

“Bye,” he said, suddenly feeling shy.

After he left, while he was in the lift, he pressed his own mouth to the spot on his hand, where he could swear he could still feel John’s lips. Then, suddenly remembering, he checked to see if the lift had a camera. It did. One could only hope that Mycroft hadn’t witnessed the entire exchange. Sherlock still wasn’t sure what it meant, and he didn’t need _Mycroft_ interfering.

Sherlock had never before felt less prepared for the future than now, but at the same time, he’d never felt more anticipation for the coming days. It was thrilling, this, being unable to predict what would happen for once.

It would be okay. John was fine, and it was going to be fine.

OOooOO

All of Baker Street was in a kerfuffle, for today was finally the day that John was coming home. Sherlock changed the sheets on his bed, determined to make sure that John was comfortable. He would just have to sleep on the couch for a while. It wasn’t as if he got much sleep anyway.

He cleaned up the living room again. He and Harry had bought quite a few baby toys, and Abigail left them strewn all about. Of course, it couldn’t be expected that a baby should clean, so Sherlock did it for her.

Abigail gurgled at him from her playpen. Sherlock looked over to see her trying to reach the solar system mobile above her head. He was embarrassed to say, but he’d learned all the planets again, and hadn’t deleted them, just so he could tell her which planets were which.

“Yes, the big one is Jupiter,” he said, putting all her toys in a box. “Did you know Earth is the third planet from the sun?”

“I wasn’t aware _you_ knew that.”

“Go away, Mycroft.”

“But I’m here to tell you that I have John and Harriet.”

“Oh!” Sherlock got to his feet and went and stood at the top of the stairs to wait for them.

It had been impressed upon him by both Mrs. Hudson and Harry that Abigail must be watched at all times and not left by herself. So even though it would only take a few minutes to go and get John from the car, he had to wait with Abigail.

“Oh, for God’s sakes, I’ll watch the child,” Mycroft said, heaving a sigh. “It’s almost painful watching you wait.”

Sherlock was off down the stairs before Mycroft was even finished talking. John was just coming through the door anyway, but now he could rush down the stairs just to see John look up at his approach.

John had told him a million times not to rush down the stairs like that. 

And of course, today was the day he tripped, just like John had always warned him he would. Fully expecting to smash to the floor right in front of John, Sherlock braced himself for impact, eyes scrunching shut.

An arm around his waist brought him around, and for a moment he was swinging and spinning. When he opened his eyes, his hands were clutching at John’s jacket, and John was french dipping him like a maiden, leaning over him, their faces inches apart.

“I told you not to run down the stairs,” John murmured.

“I - I was…” Sherlock stuttered. “I… John, your burns!”

His hands went up, but didn’t touch anything, just in case he caused even more injury.

“Now you worry,” John said good-naturedly. “My burns are on the other side, luckily, although I will admit to a little discomfort on that front.”

“Y-you should probably let me up then,” Sherlock said.

“I don’t know, I kind of like you where you are,” John said.

Sherlock flushed. Was John… flirting with him? It sounded an awful lot like he was, but it was more the playful look in his eyes that made Sherlock think he was right.

“John…”

“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. There’s a rom com taking place in the front entrance,” Mycroft said from above them.

“Shut up, it was just getting good,” Harry hissed back up at him.

“Later,” John said with a wink, and let him back up.

Feeling awfully hot and fluttery inside, Sherlock followed him. John went slower, still taking it easy on his lungs. Sherlock didn’t understand. John was way ahead of him on this one, but he was pretty certain that social convention dictated that one went through a state of mourning for one’s spouse before moving on.

Why was John flirting with him?

John settled onto the couch and Sherlock got Abigail from the playpen. Abigail made a delighted noise and began kicking her feet as soon as she saw John.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Sherlock murmured. “I told you he’d be back, didn’t I?”

“Sweetheart?” John asked softly.

Sherlock blushed and went to turn away. John reached out and got a hold of his wrist, but with his bad arm, the one with the broken wrist and burns. Rather than hurt John by pulling away, Sherlock stayed very still, not looking back at John.

“Hey,” John said quietly. “It’s okay, you know. If you like her.”

Sherlock let John pull him onto the couch beside him feeling all out of sorts. His heart was beating all strangely, and everything was warm. Throbbing, his heart was throbbing as if it contained too much emotion and didn’t know what to do with it.

“She’s brilliant, John,” he said, a bit thickly, voice all clogged up with it.

John reached over and took his hand, even though his own was mostly covered in a cast still.

“I think that I forgot to get something at the store,” Harry suddenly said, getting up. “Oi, move it bigwig, you’re driving me there.”

Mycroft, looking a bit miffed at being called ‘bigwig,’ nonetheless followed Harry out of the flat, leaving John, Sherlock, and Abigail by themselves.

“John - “ Sherlock said, not knowing what to say after that.

“I guess you’re confused,” John said. “I know, it doesn’t make sense from your perspective, does it. No, don’t look like that, I know my actions aren’t logical - to anyone.”

“You just lost Mary,” Sherlock said, looking down at Abigail. “And your child was in danger.”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Sherlock,” John said with a sigh. “I love Abigail with all my heart, but God, did I despise her mother, by the end.”

“I don’t - “

“I love you.”

Sherlock swore that all the air in the flat vacated and his very atoms stopped moving he was so shocked. Time slowed to a stop, and then suddenly started going again without Sherlock.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Breathe, love.”

Sherlock took in a gasping breath and then stared at John. It was like looking at him from underwater, he looked much further away than he actually was.

“You don’t mean that,” he heard himself saying.

“I do. God, I do. I thought I’d died, you know, after Mary pushed me out that window. Waking up in hospital was a shock. I just realized that I almost left you by yourself to raise my child without me. And I’d never even told you. And I hated Mary, but I still used my marriage to her as an excuse not to say anything. And then I nearly died, and you didn’t know. As soon as I woke up in that hospital bed, I knew I had to tell you.”

Sherlock felt something hot and wet on his face and realized that he was crying.

“Oh, love,” John said, and shifted so that he could wipe them away.

Sherlock sniffed and wiped at his face, but he couldn’t seem to stop crying. It was making his throat all tight, but he still managed to croak, “I- I love you, John.”

“There’s nothing I want more right now than to kiss you,” John said, sounding wrecked. 

They both looked down at Abigail in John’s lap and his bandaged side. John shook his head ruefully. Sherlock lifted John’s hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to John’s fingers.

“Later,” he said.

They held hands on the couch until Harry and Mycroft got back from the store.

OOooOO

Much later, after Harry and Sherlock had managed to make a passable dinner, and Harry had retreated upstairs, Sherlock put Abigail to bed. He’d been the one to change her nappy this time around, resigning himself to the task, now, and for many times in the future.

John was looking between the bed and Sherlock.

“You’re supposed to sleep here, because it’s more comfortable, and near Abigail,” Sherlock explained.

John smiled. “Nothing says you can’t stay here, too.”

Sherlock paused for a long time, while John waited patiently for him to say something. For a moment, Sherlock wasn’t certain what his answer to that would be. What finally came out of his mouth after nearly a minute was:

“Alright.”

It was with great trepidation that Sherlock brushed his teeth, got into his pyjamas and climbed into bed next to John. He had no idea what kind of etiquette couples had while sleeping together. At least, he knew that John was in no shape for more amorous activity, so that wasn’t a concern, for tonight.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want to touch John at all though. He glanced at John and then away again once he realized John was watching him.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock felt fingers lifting his chin up and followed, reluctantly meeting John’s eyes. John smiled, leaned up on his good elbow, and dipped his head until their noses were nearly touching. Sherlock could feel John’s breath mingling in between them. John waited, and Sherlock tentatively tilted his head up.

Sherlock’s heart jumped as their lips met, and he gasped. He felt John tremble, and their lips barely stayed connected as John kissed him again. Eventually, John had to pull away and collapse onto his back, breathing hard.

“When I’m all healed up, this will be much better,” John said, panting.

“It seems pretty good to me,” Sherlock said.

“When I’m better, I’ll kiss you until you’re gasping for breath. You’ll open up for me, and I’ll kiss you all over. Your mouth, your neck, your chest…” John’s eyes heated. “I’ll kiss you everywhere.”

His eyes roved down over Sherlock’s body, sprawled out next to him. Sherlock flushed as he imagined John doing just that and felt a stir of interest in his groin.

“John!” he said, face warm. “Don’t say that when I can’t…”

“Touch you?” John finished, grinning.

“You’re a menace,” Sherlock said, then leaned over and kissed John again.

It was nice having the advantage of John being unable to move beneath him. John’s hand came up to cup the back of his head, twining through his hair. John’s mouth opened underneath him, and with a slight moan, he delved deeper. 

They broke apart panting.

“Unfair,” John said. “And you say _I’m_ a menace!”

Sherlock could see him tenting his pyjama bottoms, and relented. “If you can promise not to move too much, or make any noise, I can take care of that.”

“I make no promises - _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock grinned as he got John’s pants down around his ankles. It was dark, but he managed to feel his way around. John was gasping and biting down on his fist to stop making any noise.

Sherlock swallowed around him, palming himself through his own pyjamas and pleasured them both. John struggled to keep still below him, knees trembling on either side of his head. It didn’t take long for either of them to finish, and Sherlock wiped his mouth off and grinned.

“Nope, it’s definitely you who is the menace in this relationship.”

“Relationship?”

“Of course a relationship, you daft ninny,” John said with exasperation. “Now get up here. Post-coital cuddles are non-negotiable.”

That suited Sherlock just fine.

OOooOO

It was an odd sort of household they made.

Sherlock and Harry took turns with Abigail while John healed. Mrs. Hudson would occasionally come upstairs to fuss over all of them. Lestrade stopped by to take Sherlock off on cases and would go out for beers with John after they came back. Once John was better, Harry still came by to help out when Sherlock and John were on a case.

It worked somehow.

Sherlock was still uncertain of how it came about, one autumn evening, filled with smoke, fire, and breaking glass.

What he was certain of was this: he would trade this for nothing else in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)


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